Cursed
by Secunda Valeria
Summary: In the Fall of 1935 Tom runs for Parliament. Mary goes to York with him but all does not go well.


Cursed

_Fall, 1935_

Tom did not think he could win the General election. He was at heart an Irishman. He lined up to the left of Labour, and up to a few years ago, he had been wanted in Ireland, effectively sentenced to house arrest in England. He was not the strongest of political candidates to Parliament from this part of Yorkshire. And Yorkshire was largely Conservative.

But farmers, laborers, and the small businesses around the Abbey were ready to send him to London. As a world-wide economic depression ravaged the great Democracies Tom Branson had planned, coordinated, and then galvanized a buy-local campaign to address the needs of the people and businesses around Downton.

"For a Socialist, you have a great head for business." Lord Grantham poured the whiskey for Tom. "Baxter claims the only area you won't do well in is Thirsk."

Mary stepped next to Tom. "I don't like it Papa. Hasn't Tom already done enough for this family?" She looked to Tom knowing it was all a lost cause. Sybil had told her years ago he has this as an ambition, and he's bound to follow it.

Her sister thought highly of it. Mary hated the idea.

Her father nodded to Tom. "Well, of course it is ultimately your decision."

Tom studied Robert to confirm his father in law's opinion. "He says I can do this?"

Robert shook his head. "He claims you're a **shoe-in** for the seat.

Dr. Clarkson agreed. "The people in the area admire all you've done. The mechanic in the village wants you to stand. Say's you understand, more than any, the problems he faces. And with the family's backing you'll have the votes of the gentry."

Mary shook her head. "I'll support you. But under protest." She moved off to make a fourth for bridge with Cora, Edith, and Isobel.

Tom glanced at Robert. "You'd canvass for me? I always thought you took a dim view of politics – especially the Socialist."

Robert finished his drink. "Not canvass per se, but convince and persuade voters in the area." Then Lord Grantham placed a hand on Tom's shoulder. "My dear fellow, I have learned over the years that the aristocracy and socialists work for a common cause: The advancement and benefit of the people who put their trust in us."

Tom admired the comment. "I wish all Lords thought as you."

Robert chinked Tom's and Dr. Clarkson's glasses, "Would all Socialists could be like you Tom."

And so it happened. Robert spoke of Tom to the gentry. Edith helped in the intellectual circles she moved in. Mary, Cora, and Isobel explained his ideas for the country at countless teas and luncheons. Mary made sure that she was seen at events, and made photographs in all major newspapers and even had a pair of magazines photograph Sybil, and William, Kieran and Matthew. Reluctantly at first, then with the force of water, Mary enjoyed explaining her husband's political ideas without becoming a Politician's wife.

Even the downstairs staff involved themselves. The Bates' hosted living room chats, where Tom articulated his ideas. The footmen and maids vouched for him whenever they went out. Mrs. Hughes explained Tom, recalling his climb from Chauffeur to Estate Manager with the pride of a mother. Even Carson, while voicing his discomfort with Socialists in general, stated to anyone who would listen that Tom was an exemplary example of a man who was respectful and possessed integrity.

Two weeks before the elections Tom, Mary, Cora and Robert, with John and Anna Bates were in York to meet a guild of carpenters.

A good sized crowd of a few dozen crowded the shopping district to see Lord Grantham who had a Commoner son-in-law, a man who defied tradition and had risen above his birth. The people wanted to see what strange combination had worked what magic that would make an English Lord help a Labour candidate.

Mary shuddered at the sight of so many people and only two policemen in front of the Grocer's. Still she took Tom's hand after he stepped from the cab.  
A short, mouse faced man, with rheumy eyes, pinched lips, and a sickly pale elbowed his way forward with frantic determination through the crowd. She caught the attention of the nearest Constable and pointed the man out. As the Constable approached the first man, a second, well-dressed man in a blue navy suit and fedora, stepped around the cab. He shoved Anna Bates out of his way with one hand. His other held a revolver.

"This is how we treat turncoats." He fired twice.

As if she were hovering over the scene, Mary saw everything play out. She watched, helpless, as Tom shoved her father and her out of the way, taking the first round above his abdomen while second one struck his chest.

She was aware she was screaming as she rushed back to him only to break his fall as he collapsed into her arms. She heard someone shout for a doctor then realized it was herself. She watched as John Bates hacked at the shooter with his cane dislodging the revolver while Robert and two men subdued the assassin.

The rest of the afternoon was like a motion picture without sound: The ambulance ride, the screaming crowd, Cora finding an overcoat for her so as to hide Tom's blood staining her frock, the hospital and the black haired doctor who explained to her the nature of the wounds, the surgery involved; and him prattling on about "having confidence…I served in France…soldiers with similar wounds."

Was he really talking to her?

Then as quickly as they arrived Tom was wheeled into the operating theater.

She sat in the waiting room staring at her hands, coated in his blood. She was beyond fear, too shocked to feel.

Cora worried, Robert paced.

Mary heard a voice from long ago, "We're cursed, you and I." Matthew had told her once. First Pamuk (oh what a mistake that had been),

then Matthew.

"Not this man too." She cried as Anna came with a hot towel to clean her hands.

"No milady. Doctor says he's still in the theater." Anna told her defying custom and squeezing her shoulder.

Later, after Doctor Clarkson and Isobel arrived, Mary was let in to Tom's room where he lay still. Was he dying? Mary's voice broke into a series of choked cries. She moved like a chained soul, overhearing a distant conversation between doctors uttering incoherencies about losing a lot of blood, and dangerously low blood pressure. But all she could think was how cursed she is and what she brought on Tom. "Pamuk, Matthew, now Tom?" She heard herself ask her father.

"You don't know that." He said.

But Papa did not know either.

She was as lost in the moment as if she were trapped in a fog. She tried to pray; tried to tell whatever deity would listen to punish her, not him, that he was a much better father than she a mother, and that their four children, four children my God, depended upon him like gods depend on devotion.

She sat, then knelt by his bed throughout the night. More than once she thought she heard Matthew tell her to be strong. And once she heard a voice, like Sybil's, whisper in the night, "not yet."

She heard Matthew's voice: "Love him."

"And I do. ...As much as I loved you, a different love, but just as much." Mary bowed her head. Anna's hand on her shoulder comforted her.

The next morning, as the first rays of the sun warmed the room Mary was still on her knees by Tom's side. The mascara ran from her eyes making her look like a character from an Opera by Vivaldi.

Half awake, half in shock, still in grief, she lay her head on the edge of his bed brushing his hand with her hair. If the end came she resolved that she would cherish the time she had with him and would be grateful for it, rather than have none at all with him at the end. At least she had Sybbie, Kieran and Matthew, and even Whim had inherited a bit of his godfather. They would be enough to cherish his memory by.

But she didn't want memories, she wanted the man.

Then she felt a light pressure on her head. A moment later his fingers slowly caressed her hair.

She looked up to see his eyes half-open, a weak smile crack his lips.

"Sure now, they can't kill me." He whispered – barely audible.

In the room somewhere, she heard her father mutter "thank god." As she witnessed a trace of color return to Tom's face.

She breathed.

She sobbed a loud, relieved sob.

"Oh my darling." She lavished him with kisses all the while washing his face with her tears. Perhaps she wasn't cursed after all. He was returning to love her again.

##


End file.
